In long-measured sweep the waves flowed smoothly in upon the low shore
at Baldoyle of a rich evening in autumn, as a very old man tottered
feebly down to the strand and seated himself on a rock. Leaning his
crossed arms on his stout stick, he gazed steadily and calmly on the
broad expanse before him. Was it that they mirrored to him the wider
expanse of that world to which he was so rapidly tending; was it in that
measured beat he recognized the march of time, the long flow of years he
could count, and which still swept on, smooth but relentless; or was
it that the unbroken surface soothed by its very sameness a brain long
wearied by its world conflict? Whatever the cause, old Matthew Dunn came
here every evening of his life, and, seated on the self-same spot, gazed
wistfully over the sea before him.
Although his hair was snow-white and the wrinkles that furrowed his
cheeks betrayed great age, his eyes yet preserved a singular brightness,
and in their vivid glances showed that the strong spirit that reigned
within was still unquenched. The look of defiance they wore was the very
essence of the man,--one who accepted any challenge that fortune
flung him, and, whether victor or vanquished, only prepared for fresh
conflict.
There was none of the weariness so often observable in advanced age
about his features, nothing of that expression that seems to crave rest
and peace, still as little was there anything of that irritable activity
which seems at times to' counterfeit past energy of temperament; no,
he was calm, stern, and self-possessed, the man who had fought this way
from boyhood, and who asked neither grace nor favor of fortune as he
drew nigh the end of the journey!
“I knew I'd find you here,” said a deep voice close to his ear. “How are
you?”
The old man looked up, and the next moment his son was in his arms.
“Davy, my own boy--Davy, I was just thinking of you; was it Friday or
Saturday you said you 'd come.”
“I thought I could have been here Saturday, father, but Lord Jedburg
made a point of my dining with him yesterday; and it was a great
occasion,--three Cabinet Ministers present, a new Governor-General of
India too,--I felt it was better to remain.”
“Right, Davy,--always right,--them's the men to keep company with!”
“And how are you, sir? Are you hale and stout and hearty as ever?” said
Dunn, as he threw his head back, the better to look at the old man.
“As you see me, boy: a little shaky about the knees, somewhat tardy
about getting up of a morning; but once launched, the old craft can keep
her timbers together. But tell me the news, lad,--tell me the news, and
never mind _me_.”
“Well, sir, last week was a very threatening one for us. No money to be
had on any terms, discounts all suspended, shares failing everywhere,
good houses crashing on all sides, nothing but disasters with every
post; but we 've worked through it, sir. Glumthal behaved well, though
at the very last minute; and Lord Glengariff, too, deposited all his
title-deeds at Hanbridge's for a loan of thirty-six thousand; and then,
as Downing Street also stood to us, we weathered the gale; but it was
close work, father,--so close at one moment I telegraphed to Liverpool
to secure a berth in the 'Arctic.'”
A sudden start from the old man stopped him, but he quickly resumed:
“Don't be alarmed, sir; my message excited no suspicion, for I sent a
fellow to New York by the packet, and now all is clear again, and we
have good weather before us.”
“The shares fell mighty low in the allotment, Davy; how was that?”
“Partly from the cause I have mentioned, father, the tightness in the
money market; partly that I suspect we had an enemy in the camp, that
daughter of Kellett's--”
“Did n't I say so? Did n't I warn you about her? Did n't I tell you that
it was the brood of the serpent that stung us first?” cried out the old
man, with a wild energy; “and with all that you would put her there with
the Lord and his family, where she 'd know all that was doing, see the
letters, and maybe write the answers to them! Where was the sense and
prudence of that, Davy?”
“She was an enthusiast, father, and I hoped that she'd have been content
to revel in that realm, but I was mistaken.”
There was a tone of dejection in the way he spoke the last words that
made the old man fix his eyes steadfastly on him. “Well, Davy, go on,”
said he.
“I have no more to say, sir,” said he, in the same sad voice. “The Earl
has dismissed her, and she has gone away.”
“That's right, that's right,--better late than never. Neither luck nor
grace could come of Paul Kellett's stock. I hope that's the last we 'll
hear of them; and now, Davy, how is the great world doing? How is the
Queen?”
Dunn could scarcely suppress a smile as he answered this question, asked
as it was in real and earnest anxiety; and for some time the old man
continued to press him with eager inquiries as to the truth of various
newspaper reports about royal marriages and illustrious visitors, of
which it was strange how he preserved the recollection.
“You have not asked me about myself, father,” said Dunn at last, “and I
think _my_ fortunes might have had the first place in your interest.”
“Sure you told me this minute that you didn't see the Queen,” said the
old man, peevishly.
“Very true, sir, I did not, but I saw her Minister. I placed before him
the services I had done his party, my long sacrifices of time, labor,
and money in their cause; I showed him that I was a man who had
established the strongest claim upon the Government.”
“And wouldn't be refused,--wouldn't be denied, eh, Davy?”
“Just so, sir. I intimated that also, so far as it was prudent to do
so.”
“The stronger the better, Davy; weak words show a faint heart. 'Tis
knowing the cost of your enmity will make men your friends.”
“I believe, sir, that in such dealings my own tact is my safest guide.
It is not to-day or yesterday that I have made acquaintance with men of
this order. For upwards of two-and-twenty years I have treated Ministers
as my equals.”
The old man heard this proud speech with an expression of almost ecstasy
on his features, and grasped his son's hand in a delight too great for
words.
“Ay, father, I have made our name a cognate number in this kingdom's
arithmetic. Men talk of Davenport Dunn as one recognized in the land.”
“'Tis true; 'tis true as the Bible!” muttered the old man.
“And what is more,” continued the other, warming with his theme, “what
I have done I have done for all time. I have laid the foundations deep,
that the edifice might endure. A man of inferior ambition would have
been satisfied with wealth, and the enjoyments it secures; he might
have held a seat in Parliament, sat on the benches beside the Minister,
mayhap have held some Lordship of This or Under-Secretaryship of that,
selling his influence ere it matured, as poor farmers sell their crops
standing,--but I preferred the' patient path. I made a waiting race of
it, father, and see what the prize is to be. Your son is to be a peer of
Great Britain!”
The old man's mouth opened wide, and his eyes glared with an almost
unnatural brightness, as, catching his son with both arms, he tried to
embrace him.
“There, dear father,--there!” said Dunn, calmly; “you must not
over-excite yourself.”
“It's too much, Davy,--it's too much; I'll never live to see it.”
“That you will, sir,--for a time, indeed, I was half disposed to
stipulate that the title should be conferred upon yourself. It would
have thus acquired another generation in date, but I remembered how
indisposed you might feel to all the worry and care the mere forms of
assuming it might cost you. You would not like to leave this old spot,
besides--”
“No, on no account,” said the old man, pensively.
“And then I thought that your great pride, after all, would be to hear
of me, your own Davy, as Lord Castle-dunn.”
“I thought it would be plain Dunn,--Lord Dunn,” said the old man,
quickly.
“If the name admitted of it, I 'd have preferred it so.”
“And what is there against the name?” asked he angrily.
“Nothing, father; none have ever presumed to say a word against it. In
talking the matter over, however, with some members of the Cabinet, one
or two suggested Dunnscourt, but the majority inclined to Castledunn.”
“And what did your Lordship say?” asked the old man, with a gleeful
cackle. “Oh, Davy! I never thought the day would come that I 'd call you
by any name I 'd love so well as that you bore when a child; but see,
now, it makes my old eyes run over to speak to you as 'my Lord.'”
“It is a fair and honest pride, father,” said Dunn, caressingly. “We
stormed the breach ourselves, with none to help, none to cheer us on.”
“Oh, Davy, but it does me good to call you 'my Lord.'”
“Well, sir, you are only anticipating a week or two. Parliament will
assemble after the elections, and then be prorogued; immediately
afterwards there will be four elevations to the peerage,--mine one of
them.”
“Yes, my Lord,” mumbled the old man, submissively.
“But this is not all, father; the same week that sees me gazetted a peer
will announce my marriage with an Earl's daughter.”
“Davy, Davy, this luck is coming too quick! Take care, my son, that
there's no pit before you.”
“I know what I am doing, sir, and so does the Lady Augusta Arden. You
remember the Earl of Glengariffs name?”
“Where you were once a tutor, is it?”
“The same, sir.”
“It was they that used to be so cruel to you, Davy, wasn't it?”
“I was a foolish boy, ignorant of the world and its ways at the time. I
fancied fifty things to mean offence which never were intended to wound
me.”
“Ay, they made you eat in the servants' hall, I think.”
“Never, sir,--never; they placed me at a side table once or twice when
pressed for room.”
“Well, it was the room you had somewhere in a hayloft, eh?”
“Nothing of the kind, sir. Your memory is all astray. My chamber was
small,--for the cottage had not much accommodation,--but I was well and
suitably lodged.”
“Well, what was it they did?” muttered he to himself. “I know it was
something that made you cry the whole night after you came home.”
“Father, father! these are unprofitable memories,” said Dunn, sternly.
“Were one to treasure up the score of all the petty slights he may have
received in life, so that in some day of power he might acquit the debt,
success would be anything but desirable.”
“I'm not so sure of that, Davy. I never forgot an injury.”
“I am more charitable, sir,” said Dunn, calmly.
“No, you 're not, Davy,--no, you 're not,” replied the old man, eagerly,
“but you think it's wiser to be never-minding; and so it would, boy, if
the man that injured you was to forget it too. Ay, Davy, that's the rub.
But _he_ won't; he 'll remember to his dying day that there's a score
between you.”
“I tell you, father, that these maxims do not apply to persons of
condition, all whose instincts and modes of thought are unlike those of
the inferior classes.”
“They are men and women, Davy,--they are men and women.”
Dunn arose impatiently, observing that the night was growing chilly, and
it were better to return to the house.
“I mean to sup with you,” said he, gayly, “if you have anything to give
me.”
“A rasher and eggs, and a bladebone of cold mutton is all I have,”
muttered the old man, gloomily. “I would not let them buy a chicken
this week, when I saw the shares falling. Give me your arm, Davy, I've
a slight weakness in the knees; it always took me at this season since
I was a boy.” And mumbling how strange it was that one did not throw off
childish ailments as one grew older, he crept slowly along towards the
house.
As they entered the kitchen, Dunn remarked with astonishment how little
there remained of the abundance and plenty which had so characterized it
of old. No hams, no flitches hung from the rafters; no sturdy barrels of
butter stood against the walls; the chicken-coop was empty; and even
to the good fire that graced the hearth there was a change, for a few
half-sodden turf-sods were all that lingered in the place. Several
baskets and hampers, carefully corded and sealed, were ranged beside the
dresser, in which Dunn recognized presents of wine, choice cordials and
liqueurs, that he had himself addressed to the old man.
“Why, father, how is this?” asked he, half angrily. “I had hoped for
better treatment at your hands. You have apparently not so much as
tasted any of the things I sent you.”
“There they are, indeed, Davy, Just as they came for 'Matthew Dunn,
Esq., with care,' written on them, and not a string cut!”
“And why should this be so, sir, may I ask?”
“Well, the truth is, Davy,” said he, with a sigh, “I often longed to
open them, and uncork a bottle of ale, or brandy, or, maybe, sherry,
and sore tempted I felt to do it when I was drinking my buttermilk of
a night; but then I 'd say to myself, 'Ain't you well and hearty? keep
cordials for the time when you are old, and feeble, and need support;
don't be giving yourself bad habits, that maybe some fifteen or twenty
years hence you'll be sorry for.' There's the reason, now, and I see by
your face you don't agree with me.”
Dunn made no answer, but taking up a knife he speedily cut the cordage
of a large hamper, and as speedily covered a table with a variety of
bottles.
“We 'll drink this to the Queen's health, father,” said he, holding up
a flask of rare hock; “and this to the 'House of Lords,' for which
estimable body I mean to return thanks; and then, father, I 'll give
'Prosperity to the landed interest and the gentry of Ireland,' for which
you shall speak.”
Dunn went gayly along in this jesting fashion while he emptied the
hamper of its contents, displaying along the dresser a goodly line of
bottles, whose shape and corkage guaranteed their excellence. Meanwhile
an old servant-woman had prepared the table, and was busily engaged with
the materials of the meal.
“If I only thought we were going to have a feast, Davy, I 'd have made
her light a fire in the parlor,” said the old man, apologetically.
“We're better here, sir; it's cosier and homelier, and I know you think
so. Keep your own corner, father, and I 'll sit here.”
With appetites sharpened by the sea air and a long fast, they seated
themselves at table and eat heartily. If their eyes met, a smile of
pleasant recognition was exchanged; for while the old man gazed almost
rapturously on his illustrious son, Dunn bent a look of scarcely
inferior admiration on that patriarchal face, whereon time seemed but to
mellow the traits that marked its wisdom.
“And what name do they give this, Davy?” said he, as he held up his
glass to the light.
“Burgundy, father,--the king of wines. The wine-merchant names this
Chambertin, which was the favorite drinking of the great Napoleon.”
“I wonder at that, now,” said the old man, sententiously.
“Wonder at it! And why so, father?--is it not admirable wine?”
“It's just for that reason, Davy; every sup I swallow sets me
a-dreaming of wonderful notions,--things I know the next minute is quite
impossible,--but I feel when the wine is on my lips as if they were all
easy and practicable.”
“After all, father, just remember that you cannot imagine anything one
half so strange as the change in our own actual condition. There you
sit, with your own clear head, to remind you of when and how you began
life, and here am I!--for I am, as sure as if I held my patent in my
hand, the Right Honorable Lord Castledunn.”
“To your Lordship's good health and long life,” said the old man,
fervently.
“And now to a worthier toast, father,--Lady Castledunn that is to be.”
[Illustration: 255]
“With all my heart. Lady Castledunn, whoever she is.”
“I said, 'that is to be,' father; and I have given you her name,--the
Lady Augusta Arden.”
“I never heard of her,” muttered the old man, dreamily.
“An Earl's daughter, sir; the ninth Earl of Glengariff,” said Dunn,
pompously.
“What 's her fortune, Davy? She ought to bring you a good fortune.”
“Say rather, sir, it is I that should make a splendid settlement,--so
proud a connection should meet its suitable acknowledgment.”
“I understand little about them things, Davy; but there's one thing I do
know, there never was the woman born I 'd make independent of me if she
was my wife. It is n't in nature, and it isn't in reason.”
“I can only say, sir, that with _your_ principles you would not marry
into the peerage.”
“Maybe I 'd find one would suit me as well elsewhere.”
“That is very possible, sir,” was the dry reply.
“And if she cost less, maybe she'd wear as well,” said the old man,
peevishly; “but I suppose your Lordship knows best what suits your
Lordship's station.”
“That also is possible, sir,” said Dunn, coldly.
The old man's brow darkened, he pushed his glass from him, and looked
offended and displeased.
Dunn quickly saw the change that had passed over him, and cutting
the wire of a champagne flask, he filled out a foaming tumbler of the
generous wine, saying, “Drink this to your own good health, father,--to
the man whose wise teachings and prudent maxims have made his son a
foremost figure in the age, and who has no higher pride than to own
where he got his earliest lessons.”
“Is it true, Davy,--are them words true?” asked the old man, trembling
with eagerness.
“As true as that I sit here.” And Dunn drained his glass as he spoke.
The old man, partly wearied by the late sitting, partly confused by all
the strange tidings he had heard, drooped his head upon his chest and
breathed heavily, muttering indistinctly a few broken and incoherent
words. Lost in his own reveries, Dunn had not noticed this drowsy
stupor, when suddenly the old man said,--
“Davy,--are you here, Davy?”
“Yes, father, here beside you.”
“What a wonderful dream I had, Davy!” he continued; “I dreamed you
were made a lord, and that the Queen sent for you, and I was looking
everywhere, up and down, for the fine cloak with the ermine all over it
that you had to wear before her Majesty; sorra a one of me could find
it at all; at last I put my hand on it, and was going to put it on your
shoulders, when what should it turn out but a shroud!--ay, a shroud!”
“You are tired, father; these late hours are bad for you. Finish that
glass of wine, and I'll say good-night.”
“I wonder what sign a shroud is, Davy?” mumbled the old man,
pertinaciously adhering to the dream. “A coffin, they say, is a
wedding.”
“It is not a vigorous mind like yours, father, that lends faith to such
miserable superstitions.”
“That is just what they are not. Dreams is dreams, Davy.”
“Just so, sir; and, being dreams, have neither meaning nor consistency.”
“How do you know that more than me? Who told you they were miserable
superstitions? I call them warnings,--warnings that come out of our own
hearts; and they come to us in our sleep just because that's the time
our minds is not full of cares and troubles, but is just taking
up whatever chances to cross them. What made Luke Davis dream of a
paycock's feather the night his son was lost at sea? Answer me that if
you can.”
“These are unprofitable themes, father; we only puzzle ourselves when we
discuss them. Difficult as they are to believe, they are still harder to
explain.”
“I don't want to explain them,” said the old man, sternly, for he deemed
that the very thought of such inquiry had in it something presumptuous.
“Well, father,” said Dunn, rising, “I sincerely trust you will sleep
soundly now, and be disturbed by none of these fancies. I must hasten
away. I leave for Belfast by the early train, and have a mass of letters
to answer before that.”
“When am I to see you again, Davy?” asked the old man, eagerly.
“Very soon, I hope, sir; as soon as I can, of that you may be certain,”
said he, cordially.
“Let it be soon, then, Davy, for the meeting does me good. I feel
to-night ten years younger than before you came, and it isn't the
wine either; 'tis the sight of your face and the touch of your hand.
Good-night, and my blessing be with you!” And a tear coursed down his
seared cheek as he spoke.